


Strawberry Blood

by babynovak05



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Sherlock, BAMF! John, Depressed John, Doctor John Watson, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt John, Hurt Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Lots of Cuddling, M/M, Mary who?, Nightmares, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Two Idiots Pinning, WIP, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-05-03 03:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14559876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babynovak05/pseuds/babynovak05
Summary: John was still heartbroken about the sudden suicide of his best friend. There are so many things he wished he could've said, should've said but didn’t. "Married to my work" was pretty clear. Two years later still at 221B, John is barely living. He doesn't stray too far from the flat anymore, just to go for a shift at the surgery or to Tesco's around the corner. He's lost nearly two stone and he's honestly given up on properly functioning. He's ready to give up and end. All he wants is to be with Sherlock again.





	1. Pastry

**Author's Note:**

> **Please make sure to look over the tags. Major triggering points in this. You've been warned. Enjoy <3  
> Find me on Tumblr! babynovak05.tumblr.com

John stood in the middle of the sitting room. Empty. He stopped hoping Sherlock would appear back in Baker ages ago, but that slight anxious feeling never left. He wasn’t sure why he’d gotten up in the first place. It was well past midnight. He wasn’t asleep anyway but his legs just carried him there. He doesn’t sleep anymore not since… 

He couldn’t even think it. It was too hard. He swallowed the thick bunch of emotions that got caught in his throat. Two years…today. You would think it go easier. It doesn’t. Not for him. He stared at the empty worn leather chair. Move on. Move on, his mind chanted at him. But his heart ached, not wanting to move on, his eyes now wet with fresh tears. 

When you love someone how are you supposed just move on? Especially if you didn’t get to confess your love for them before they… 

He collapsed into the chair. The leather like ice on his bed warm skin. Sobs shaking his entire frame. His face pressed into the back cushion as his body curled into the chair. 

\- 

John wasn’t sure how long he cried but he woke up still in the chair and his shoulder unbearably sore. His eyes glanced around the flat. Empty. The light filtering through drawn curtains. With a sigh he pushed himself up, bones cracking and popping. He shuffled into the kitchen, straight to the kettle. Coffee. He had a shift at the surgery later that afternoon and didn’t need to be a walking zombie. He made his coffee slowly trying to piece the wall he’d built back together so he could face the never-ending line of horrible patients. 

He barely let the coffee cool before he swallowed the black liquid down. He put his mug into the sink and turned around his eyes immediately landing on the small brown paper sack in the middle of the worktop. This is new. Shuffling forward he eyed the bag more closely then peered inside. Two fresh pastries. His stomach decided to make its self-known by growling quite loudly. How? When? What? Had to of been Mrs. Hudson’s doing. He’d have to thank her. He grabbed one out and took a large bite. Strawberry. His favorite. He ate the pastry as he walked to the bathroom. 

John showered, shaved and dressed. His morning routine the same it had been for years. He was sitting on his bed tying his shoe laces when he heard a noise. Thump. He didn’t think anything of it, could be Mrs. Hudson cleaning. He was walking down the stairs when he heard the noise, again. Which sounded more like a shuffle or something falling to the floor. He froze on the steps. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t home. He remembered her mentioning she’d be at her sisters a few nights ago. Christ. Adrenaline already pumping through his veins as he turned and ran back into his room. Grabbing his gun, he checked the chamber. Loaded. Then clicked off the safety as he left his bedroom once more and proceeded down the stairs. Gun aimed.


	2. Red Chrysanthemum

Empty. Just as it had been. Hallucinating or hearing things, John concluded; adrenaline still raging through his veins as he leaned against the counter. His eyes locked on the thin paper sack that held the second pastry. A slight part of him wished that it was something. Something more than just a noise. So, he could get that high he desperately craves, that after case high. Absolute bliss. He stowed his gun in the nearest drawer in the kitchen, safety on but still loaded. No point in locking it away anymore, Sherlock wasn’t here to shoot at the walls. 

He rubbed the heal of his palms over his eyes, exhausted. 

“Christ,” He cursed. 

He left the flat two hours before his shift even started. He couldn't be in that space anymore. It was hard for him to call Baker Street home since the fall. Sherlock isn't here, shouting deductions, spilling chemicals on the worktop, insulting his jumpers and sulking around in posh dressing gowns. It felt foul on his tongue, the word 'home'. He couldn't remember what 'home' felt like. Guilt kept him at Baker Street. Guilt of leaving Mrs. Hudson, guilt of packing away Sherlock's things. That and he had nowhere else to go. Harry in rehab again and Clara isn't talking to him. He fought off Mycroft's minions from taking away all of Sherlock's things the day after the jump. 

"DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH THAT CHAIR!" 

"PUT THOSE BOOKS BACK." 

"FUCK OFF!" 

Mycroft was successful in packing away and taking all of Sherlock's science things, the body parts in the fridge, and clothes. John was furious and nearly punched the Mycroft in the face when he mentioned to move on. Mrs. Hudson was the one who finally got the older Holmes to move along and leave him alone. He spent the next week in bed, miserable. 

His feet carried him to the clinic, his mind lost in his own thoughts as he walked the several miles. Taking a few deep breaths, he pushed himself through the clinic door. 

\----- 

Eight hours later he was back at Baker Street, more tired than he was before his shift. Sara nagged him more the usual today. She was concerned about his weight. 

"Have you eaten John?" 

"Yes, Sara." 

"Biscuit John?" 

"No, ta though." 

"Seriously John EAT something!" 

He promised that he would eat something when he returned back to the flat. She was skeptical but left him alone for the rest of the afternoon. He wasn't going to keep that promise. He felt as if he might throw up he as soon as he unlocked the door of 221B. He hung his coat on the pegs by the door turning to enter the sitting room his foot immediately hitting something, knocking it over with a thud. 

"Bloody hell!" He exclaimed, looking down. 

There spilled out in the door frame of the sitting room, a vase filled with red flowers and water. He cleaned up the flowers, bringing it the sink to refill the water he'd spilt. He sat the vase on the worktop next to the paper bag. He looked closely at the vase, no card, nothing. Nothing indicating on where they came from or who they were from and how they ended up inside Baker Street. 

"Strange," he said rubbing the back of his neck, completed baffled by the rather beautiful bouquet he received. He cleaned the spilt water then moved to head up the stairs. 

His knees starting to give out as he climbed each step slowly. He hoped once he got in bed he would sleep. But who was he kidding. Dreams invaded his nights like a shark seeking its prey. He would never be lucky enough to have a dreamless night. Sherlock still invaded them. He hated it. He changed quickly into his worn pj pants and grey t shirt. Then curled himself up on his mattress and prayed for sleep.


	3. Last breath

Sleep never came for the good doctor. He wasn’t that lucky. Nightmares invaded his head every time his eyes slipped closed. Sherlock dead on the pavement, blood like a halo around inky curls. Green eyes dull and lifeless. Running across rooftops trying to save the detective but he was always to late, two steps behind. Sherlock always jumped. John would scream, he would scream until his voice was gone. “Please no, don’t do this, Sherlock!!!” They would go unheard, the detective unfazed by his pleas. Sherlock would jump, he would fall and he would die. His dreams like broken records, always on repeat, always the same. 

John sat up abruptly in his bed, sweating and panting. “Christ,” he muttered rubbing his face as sobs rocked through his body. 2:45 am, the angry red numbers flashed back at him from his bedside alarm clock.This can’t go on, he can’t live like this anymore. 

He shoved off the bed, nearly falling to the floor, knees weak from hunger. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a full meal. He pushed the hunger pains out of his mind. Gun. He forced himself down to the kitchen, to the drawer that held the weapon. The weapon he once used to protect a complete stranger, someone who he loved so unconditionally. So suddenly his life changed after killing the cabbie. He never thought he could be head over heals in love with someone who he knew wouldn’t love him back. He didn’t care though, he was happy with what they shared. He wanted that. Forever. But life isn’t so kind. 

The gun felt heavy in his hand as he pulled it from its place. He was going to be with Sherlock again and he felt wave happiness, for the first time in years. He held the doorknob to Sherlock’s room, the room he avoided, this is where it’ll end and he’ll be happy again. He pushed open the door, tears clouding his eyes as he stepped in. He sat on the bed and held the gun to his chest. The room cold and still. Sherlock’s scent had since faded from the room. Nothing seemed to be his anymore. 

“I love you,” he sobbed aloud. “I’m ready to be with you, forever.” He held the gun to his temple, hand steady. One last breath, burning his lungs as he held it. He heard the click of the gun before everything went black. Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s so short. Another chapter will be posted soon, I promise. Thank you for reading! ❤️


	4. In Between

John thought his death would be painful, like it nearly had been in Afghanistan. It was quite and peaceful and he didn’t feel any pain. He felt as if he was floating or drifting. Rough seas of his life now calm, the storm finally broken. He felt as if he could cry, his chest feeling tight. He shouldn’t feel that way, Sherlock is here. He would be with his best friend again. 

“John!” A deep baritone voice broke through the serenity. 

“John, stay with me. Breathe John!” 

Sherlock, my dear detective. I am dead. I don’t need to breathe, neither do you. I’d forgotten how beautiful your voice is. I’ve missed you. 

“Mycroft where is the bloody ambulance?” 

John couldn’t hear the voice any longer, he was drifting farther and farther away. The peaceful feeling was leaving him, quickly being replaced by nothing. He couldn’t feel anymore. This is death. John is dead.  
~~~  
Sherlock sat on the small bench in the back of the ambulance clutching John’s limp hand. A young EMT adjusted the oxygen on John’s face before pricking him in the arm with IV line. Fluids. John was severely dehydrated and malnourished, non responsive. 

Sherlock was sure he had broke some of John’s ribs when he tackled the frail doctor off the bed just moments before the trigger was pulled. John’s breaths were shallow and he looked like paper, no death. His John was dying all because of him. His already broken heart shattered in a million pieces, seeing John in this state after all the years was almost to much. He would never be able to forgive himself for this. 

Mycroft informed Sherlock of John’s condition, which was worsening by the day, three days before he was set to break the last piece of the web. Sherlock was distracted, he was captured and tortured. The wounds on his back angry and stinging against the rough bandages. Those wounds don’t matter, John mattered. John had always mattered. 

The ambulance doors swung open and John was quickly taken away. Sherlock nearly fell out of the emergency vehicle trying to stay with John. He was still weak from being held captive the two days prior. Mycroft’s car wasn’t far behind the ambulance and he appeared beside his brother offering him a steady arm. 

“Sherlock, you cannot blame yourself for this,” Mycroft said as he steadied his brother. Sherlock yanked his hand back once he knew he wasn’t going to faint. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? How can I NOT!?! John is like that because of ME!” Sherlock spat back pointing one hand toward the A&E doors. 

“Dr. Watson, clearly should’ve cared for himself better. I won’t begin to understand why he let himself get into such a state,” Mycroft paused, umbrella switching hands. “But I will make sure the best doctors are on his case and will be put in the most private room.” With that the British Government turned on a heel and proceeded to walk into the building. 

Sherlock wanted to say more, to yell and scream at his ape headed brother for keeping John’s condition away from him. He didn’t have the energy now but when he did Mycroft would get it and it would be ugly. He shuffled forward into the building, instantly wrinkling his nose. Hospitals have such a distinctive smell, antiseptic and death. It should make him feel at home, but John was here. John was dying. John needed him. 

Mycroft was still standing at the main reception desk, taking to gentleman in a white coat. His brother turned when he approached, face smug. Oh God he wanted to punch him right on the big nose. 

“John has been moved to the private ICU ward, room nine. The secure lift is around the corner there. I’m assuming you’ll be staying with him for the time being. I will have your things and some of his brought up. I do wish Dr Watson a speedy recovery, you as well brother dearest.” With that Mycroft was back out the doors to get right back into his ridiculous car. 

Sherlock quickly found the lift and jabbed the ‘3’ several more times then necessary once he was inside. He leaned his full body against the cold metal of the lift, his transport breaking down. It suffered more abuse in the past three days then nearly a decade worth of his habits. He needed a bed and quickly, his muscles spasming as he clutched the metal bar. Once the lift doors opens he burst out, trying to use what left of his energy to find John’s room. 

“John Watson! Room Nine please!!!” Sherlock yelled down the empty corridor. A nurse bustled around the corner, clip board in hand. 

“Last door on the left, now be quiet!” She scolded him then moved back to her duties. 

Sherlock stumbled down the short corridor and slammed into room nine’s door. He gathered himself then threw the door open. He took several steps then collapsed on the floor, not before seeing his John attached to several machines.


	5. Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I’ve finally updated this! Woo! Thank you to all those that have stuck around, I appreciate it. Much love xx

Sherlock woke up gasping for air, his hands coming up to his neck pulling at a rope that wasn’t there. When he realized that the rope was a dream, he opened his eyes. Hospital, his brain provided for him. He looked around the room quickly then his eyes landed on John, a sob escaping his lips. John was hooked up to several machines, he was thin, pale and looked like death. His ears ringing, the steady beeping of the heart monitor comforting. John was alive, his John. 

“John.” Was all Sherlock could say. He was crying, which was very unlike him then came the hiccups. He didn’t know how he’d gotten his own bed but he pushed himself out of it and straight over to John. His hands were shaking as he picked up John’s left hand. He fell to his knees, hands hands gripping his John’s hand as he sobbed into the bed. 

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he had stayed on his knees crying into the bedsheet gripping the doctors hand but when he stood he groaned out in pain. His joints popped loudly and he wiped his eyes lazily. He turned around and shuffled back to his bed, his transport not completely recharged. 

Once he got to his coat he rummaged around in his pockets and pulled his cellphone free. He vigorously typed out a message to Mycroft and unfortunately had to add a thank you. He wanted to puke. He tucked his phone back away in his pockets when his fingers touched a crumbled piece of paper. He scoffed audibly as he pulled it out and was about to throw it away when he actually looked at the ink covered scrap of paper. 

It was a receipt, dated for a few weeks before the pips. Sherlock had actually bought dinner for the doctor, they shared a pleasant evening together. It was rare and just staring at what used to be made Sherlock want to cry some more. He carefully tucked it back into his pocket and crawled back into his bed. More sleep wouldn’t hurt. He didn’t want to think. It hurt to think. Sherlock pulled his coat over his body and fell into unconsciousness. 

When Sherlock woke again there was a nurse standing over by the machines. His heart rate increased drastically and he shot up out of the bed. Questions flooded his mind but his transport wasn’t cooperating so all that came out of his mouth was, “John okay?” 

The nurse let out a sigh and shook her head. “Ah. You must be the one that was yelling then passed out in the hallway.” She tutted and proceeded to annoyingly write on the clipboard in her grasp. “John will recover but we won’t know fully what the damage is until he wakes up. We just have to wait for him to do so.” 

Sherlock’s mind picked apart the nurse in under a minute. Thirty, single, unable to keep a steady partner due to her profession. Several cats at home and tends to drink heavily on the weekends. 

Sherlock nodded in response before turning on his heel to move over to John. The doctor looked much the same, besides the slightest hint of pink to his cheeks. Sherlock let his fingertips graze the skin of John’s forearm then he moved back away. He dramatically threw himself on his bed with a sigh. Mycroft had texted him back, his response was snarky but he complied to his wishes. 

Over the next several hours Mycroft’s men brought up several suit cases, Sherlock’s violin, a bag of John favorite books and lastly an old green chair. It was the match to the one Sherlock had in the flat that he had store away when he acquired the red one John liked so much. Sherlock pranced around room, moving the chair into its perfect spot before picking up a book from the stack and plopping down. He had position the chair on John’s left side, close enough to the bed Sherlock could just reach out and touch the sleeping doctor. 

Sherlock stared down at the book in his lap. The book was well worn, dusty from sitting on the shelf. He thumbed at the pages then shook his head. Reading was tedious, reading aloud was tedious. But he knew John liked the sound of his voice, though the doctor would never admit it and he’d honestly do anything for the man laying in the hospital bed, even if it’s boring. He sighed, opened the book and began to read aloud. 

Day after day, week after week Mycroft witnessed his brother read nearly thirty books, write notes on every surface in the hospital room and run a dangerous experiment. The government official had to pull several strings to get the doctor moved to the most private room the hospital could provide and limit the activity of hospital personnel. With the staff happy and his brother he left his visits to once a week, for both of their sanity.

Sherlock was laid in bed as usual, one hand holding John’s while the other one rested on his chest. He organized his mind palace. This was the tedious work he enjoyed, his mind was his escape from the reality and to try and forget just for a while that his doctor was still in a coma. 

Hours passed and Sherlock stayed completely still, so deep in his mind palace that he didn’t feel the tightening of John’s grip. Sherlock slowly pushed himself out of the fog before he realized that John was squeezing his hand tighter. His whole body froze as he stared at the doctor, watching as John’s forehead crinkled, then his nose.   
Breathe Sherlock, his brain provided and he took a gasping breath. He needed to call the doctors to let them know John was awake but he couldn’t get his body to move. 

“Sherlock,” John rasped.


End file.
